The Day I Dreamt of The Doctor
by Taylor Oswin-Oswald
Summary: 'It was a dream,' I snap. 'Yes,' he replied, eying me intensely. 'A dream in which you saw me and my box.' 'Coincidence.' I say. He takes my hand. I should pull away, but there is something about his eyes that make me want to trust him. 'If there is one thing I've learned,' he says, smiling. 'It's "never ignore a coincidence."' Please forgive any grammatical/spelling flaws


Chapter 1

I slowly open my eyes. I am lying in the middle of the street. My cheek stings as I lift my head, small grains of asphalt stick to my raw skin. I must have fallen and dragged my face against the road. I move my arms under me and begin to push myself up. A deep, burning pain jolts through my shoulder; I call out in pain and fall back onto my stomach. I roll onto the shoulder that doesn't hurt, my right one, and I feel a warm liquid soak into my shirt. There is a gaping wound on my shoulder and warm blood is being absorbed by my shirt. I carefully bring myself to a seated position and look around. London is in chaos. Everywhere robots that resemble trash cans are shooting lasers from their centers, hitting people and lighting the shops and carts on fire. _One must have shot me, _I think to myself. _In the shoulder and that's why I fell. _I stand up and gaze around, the smoke and fire is almost suffocating, I cough and clutch my shoulder with my right hand. Suddenly I see three of the robots look towards me, one of them calls out in a metallic voice;

Necessary human located. Commencing pursuit!

They begin to advance towards me. My breathing grows heavy and shaken. _They mean me, _I realize. _They are coming after me! _

I take a few steps backwards, not knowing what to do. They continue to hover towards me and gain speed. I turn and, keeping my good hand on my wounded shoulder, begin to run.

They start to fire at me. I duck my head and occasionally look over my shoulder to see if I lost them. They are persistent and gaining speed. I look around, dodging fallen trash cans and overturned flower pots, and see Big Ben, like a shining beacon on the smoke filled sky.

Suddenly I am struck with a realization; _I have to get to the top! I have to get to the top of Big Ben! _How could I have forgotten? How could I have remembered? My head is swimming with confusion and clarity all at once that I stagger in my steps. The clock face reads 11:59pm. I have until midnight to get to the top, and it's still a mile and a half away. I let go of my wounded shoulder and, despite the agonizing pain, sprint, thrusting both arms to give me the necessary momentum to reach my goal.

The robots continue to fire at me, calling after me to surrender or be destroyed. I can't surrender. I just _can't! _

The clock strikes the hour, sending a loud chime throughout the London sky. I am struck too, with an agonizing pain in my head, a sudden amount of pressure that both throbs and burns in my brain. I feel as if my head is about to explode! Each chime brings a new wave of pain, more severe than the first. I don't know how I keep running, my vision is so distorted from the pain that I can barley tell the ground from the sky. I feel my pace lessen as the clock chimes for the fourth time. Black dots surround the edges of my vision, and threaten to consume the rest of my sight. Sixth chime. I feel nauseas from the pain. I can't bear it, but I can't afford to give up, I can't.

I hear the cold voices behind me; resistance is futile. You will not escape. Surrender and be destroyed.

My eyes fill with tears as I turn to face them. _How could I have failed? _I feel a surge of anger as the clock chimes for the seventh time.

'Why are you doing this?' I say. 'Why?'

Do not ask questions that you do not have the authority to ask.

Eighth chime. I fall to my knees.

Rise human! Rise and face your death!

One of them shoots at me. The laser grazes my cheek. Blood runs down my face, and I fall foreword.

Tenth chime. This is it. Two more chimes and I die. How do I know that? Somehow I know I won't survive the twelfth.

Eleventh chime.

That's when I hear it; an odd grinding sound. It grows louder and louder as the clock chimes the twelfth time and I scream out in pain.

I jolt awake. My body is covered in cold sweat. I grab the ground I lay on and my fists gather sheets. I'm in my bed. I sit up and turn the lamp on, my eyes unable to remain open as the light radiates through the room. When they finally adjust I see the familiar surroundings of my apartment. I pull my knees up to my chest and put my hands over my face. My eyes burn with tears and I shake as I cry silently.

The nightmare has never been that detailed, that real before.

I swing my feet over the side of the bed and grab my robe off the headboard. I see the picture me and Mark took last year in the park. My arms are gently wrapped around his neck and he lovingly holds my arms. His smile stretches from ear to ear, his white teeth accentuated by the blurred green background. I force a smile.

I walk about three meters to my small 'wall-kitchen' as I call it. I turn on the cook top and put the kettle on. I grab the remote off the fridge and turn on the telly. There is nothing worth watching at four in the morning, but the looming lights and soft voice of the BBC reporter relaxes me.

When the kettle calls, I put my chamomile in a mug and pour the water; I then make my way towards the sofa and sit down, wrapping the small fleece blanket around my feet. I grab the DVD player remote and press play. A home video from last summer plays. Mark's twenty-fourth birthday. In the video I bring out his cake and tell him to close his eyes and make a wish. He does and I remove the candle and push his face into the cake. He grabs me as I run off and wraps his arms around my waist, kissing me tenderly. I remember that day, his warm kiss tasted like vanilla cake and butter cream icing. We laugh and kiss again. I flip back to the news, a lump in my throat, tears in my eyes.

I sip my tea and try to push the memory from my mind, but it's too late.

How I wish I could go back to that day. Turn back time and return to that moment when it was Mark and me, and we were happy.

'Don't be a fool,' I say, to no one in particular. 'You can't turn back time. No one can.'

My eyelids grow heavy as the placid faced reporter talks about the sudden rise in raccoon attacks during the daylight hours.


End file.
